


Breaking In The Muted Skies

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood during sex, F/M, Knifeplay, Marking, carving into skin during sex, sharing battle scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 23:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: PROMPT: Overlapping scars tell interesting stories for those able to read them.





	Breaking In The Muted Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendibird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendibird/gifts).



*photo edit by [@stigmaticsamwinchester](https://tmblr.co/mPx7nhh9rQmpKFMBiGndpGQ)

~~~~~~~

“This one’s from a ghoul hunt,” he says with a bright, white smile.

It’s interesting to put together what it is that makes Sam Winchester smile.

He smiles a lot when he talks about his brother, but not necessarily when his brother’s around. I’d wager that he wasn’t smiling during that ghoul hunt, either.

“What about this?” he asks, gently brushing a fingertip over and half inch indentation above my right eyebrow.

“That… was a hilarious accident,” I answer.

I tell him about talking on the phone with my mom, bending over to pick up a sock that my new puppy had shredded, and smacking my forehead on the edge of my chest of drawers.

“The great thing was that it was Halloween, so, instant costume.” He laughs with me as his hand slides over my bare hip. “Bad news was that it bled for like four hours, just pouring into my eye.”

“Dean’s had some of the worst facial injuries,” Sam offers, shaking his head. “Cas heals them, or he’d look like Frankenstein’s monster.”

I laugh extra hard at that because honestly, you’d have to rip Dean Winchester’s face clean from his skull in order to make him look bad – and even then, I’m not so sure he doesn’t have a beautiful skeleton.

“And this?” I ask, placing my hand over his clavicle. I hold my hand there for a moment, absorbing his heat. Sam runs hot, so I try to soak it. He’s like sunshine that way.

“Demon knife fight,” he answers, rolling his eyes, but still smiling. “Dean took it out right after, but it was grueling while it lasted.”

His hand slides up the curve of my waist until his thumb is nestled under my breast. He squeezes my ribcage and warms me everywhere.

“Why doesn’t Cas heal everything?” I ask as Sam watches his thumb slide up over the mound of flesh and to my nipple. He circles the areola and brushes the peak, licks his lips as it pebbles.

“Sometimes he isn’t there in time,” he answers, distracted by what his hands are doing to my scarred skin, the gooseflesh hiding some and emphasizing others. He rolls me to my back and slots himself between my damp thighs.

He’s already made me come twice – once with his calloused trigger finger and crooked middle finger – and once as he took me slow and rough from behind.

“Sometimes, we just don’t ask – don’t need it,” he says, holding my thighs open and sliding inside me without any need for guidance. I’m so wet and he’s so hard.

It seems that sharing battle scars and stories doesn’t just make Sam smile, it turns him on.

“This one,” he murmurs, licking the vamp bite on my neck. “This is gorgeous.” He says it with such reverence.

I like that one, too. It’s almost like a tattoo I’d have picked, but mostly it’s a reminder of what I – what _we_ – do and how we survive.

“You feel so good,” I breathe. “So thick and hard. Talking about this shit makes you hard.”

He nods into my neck. “And it makes you wet,” he says, clamping his teeth over the vamp scar.

I gasp and lift my hips into him. “ _You_ make me wet,” I say.

“Yeah?” he asks, pushing my knees up and open wide, pressing them into the mattress to brace himself over me. And then he starts _slamming_ into me.

“Oh, _fuck_ , yes,” I groan. “Tell me about the one on your hip, fuck me harder, shit.”

Sam bites his lower lip and bangs into me hard, shaking my whole body, likely bruising my cunt and certainly bruising my inner thighs with his iron grip. “Rougarou,” he grits through his teeth. “Lost control of my blade for a second.” His breath shakes. “Oh, shit.”

“Sam.” My breath shakes in return. “I want you to mark me. Please. I wanna remember you like this.”

Sam groans low and deep, slows his thrusts. Then his eyes meet mine. He’s hungry, so hungry, and he wants this as bad as I do.

“Where?” he asks, lazily grinding over me, keeping us both at a simmer. “With what?”

I throw my hand to the bedside table and grab his knife. “Carve into me, anywhere, anything,” I say, leaving my hands open on either side of my face, supplicant, needy. “Mark me while you fuck me.”

And so he does. He doesn’t even hesitate. He picks up his thrusts as he holds one leg open and uses his blade to carve his initials into my inner thigh. It burns and stings and it’s bloody and glorious, and I come twice with him inside me before he finally finishes – carving and fucking me.

He tosses the knife aside, staring down at the fresh wound as he pulls out of my body before dropping to all fours between my open thighs then looking up at me as his tongue sneaks out of his mouth to clean me up.


End file.
